


I Was Only Born Inside My Dreams

by Flames_and_Jade



Series: Only One For Me - Peterick OTP Prompts Repository [3]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 20:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8299853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade
Summary: Pete's the only one who has nightmares...right?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr OTP Prompt: Person A has a horrible nightmare about losing Person B, that wakes both them, and Person B up. Person A is crying and clinging to Person B as they spend their time reassuring Person A that everything was alright and soothing them back to sleep 
> 
> So with this one I’m taking a inspiration approach, rather than a literal approach. I think a lot’s been written about Pete having nightmares, and as such I’m going to hop right over that fence and do something in the same vein…just not. This is unbeta'd, and if anyone has concrit to share, please go for it!! I'm still new to this fandom so...I'm just bumbling around. Hugs!

 

 _It’s funny how the whole of the internet (and thereby the world) knows so much about me, more than they probably ever wanted. It’s so crazy that I can reach out and throw my thoughts and my ideas and the weird stuff that just flits in and out of my brain out there. I’m not talking about The Days of the Dick Pic type of oversharing, or the times that I’ve poured all my skin-crawling, panic-fueled feelings onto blog posts. Now I just love that I can instagram something that I think is cool, or blab about my fantasy football league onto snapchat…and know that it gets_ out there. _Maybe it’ll make someone smile, or laugh, or roll their eyes. That’s what I hope happens—that’s what makes it worth it._

 

 _Of course that translates into my actual life. If I throw those kind of brain bytes out into the endless binary stream that is the internet, how could you not know I do it to those around me? My hairdresser, my dog groomer, my publicist…they all know about the Amazing Saga of Pete Wentz. I tell them stuff that I’m sure they don’t want to know, and unlike the internet, I_ know _when they don’t smile because of my shit. But I still do it. Because it’s just my thing. I want to tell you all of the crazy stuff that’s going on—good, bad and indifferent—and I want to hear the same from you. ‘Cause that’s called life. It’s called real. I love it._

 

 _Other people_ -coughpatrickmartinfuckingstumpcough- _are the exact opposite of an over-sharer. They would rather brew in pissy silence than let a single word past their lips that isn’t calibrated just perfect. They let hurts and slights and frustrations just bounce around in their brains until they come exploding out in a heap of_ not fun at all. _They withdraw into themselves so far that they forget important things—like they have friends and family who love them and want to be there for them. Those people are fucking annoying._

 

_I’d know because I’m married to one._

 

_The world knows about all of my problems, and I’m totally fine with that. I’ve got more than enough to share, after all. But Patrick…the world probably thinks that he just flits around on downy angel wings from the clouds down to unicorn-filled pastures and then back up to the fucking clouds, going through a rainbow or two on the way. All while wearing a sweater and singing sunshine._

 

_The world is so wrong._

 

_Patrick Stump is one of the most agitated people you’d ever meet. He gets into crazy fits, when he’s truly mad he’s got more fury than most crazy emo metal punks could muster (it’s one of the most terrifyingly amusing things ever), and he gets depressed as fuck sometimes. He also loves so completely that it’s easy to forget that his love is something precious—something very few people are ever truly trusted with. He’s obsessive, and gets more than a little bossy and domineering when he’s trying to do something perfect, and can be a nightmare in the mornings._

 

_But he always pulls it together when he has to. Maybe that’s the difference between us. With me, what you see is what you get. If I’m feeling like crying my eyeballs out, that’s what I do. If I want to dance and give out hugs, that’s what happens. Patrick…he always pulls himself together, he is always polite when he needs to be, always kind, always polished. Maybe it’s a lie, maybe it’s strength, I don’t know. But it’s who he is._

 

 _That also means he has such a hard time letting go of the mask. You know that birth order crap that shrinks love? I’ve never believed it, because Patrick and I are prime examples that it’s bullshit. I’m the oldest, but I’m the most immature, irresponsible and un-adultish person in my family. Definitely not the driven, over-responsible and well-behaved person that psychology says I should be. Patrick, on the other hand, is the baby of his family. He should be the life of the party, the charmer, the selfish one. But instead he’s more of a firstborn than I’ll ever be—basically he has more_ adult _in his little finger than I have in my whole body. And because of that, he never_ lets anyone help. 

 

 _I wear my love for Patrick on my sleeve, I can fill rooms with words telling him what he means to me, how much I love him. I cry when I miss him, I mope when he’s mad at me and I crawl all over him when he’s happy at me again. But Patrick…getting him to express his feelings is_ literally _like pulling teeth. You know how dentists get your wisdom teeth out? They use these plier-things to_ break _the tooth into fragments, and then pull them out one by one. That’s kinda how it is with Patrick. He has to be broken, so completely wrung-out and desolate, to let me pull the hurt out of him. To let words past those gorgeous lips and tell me what he’s feeling and let me help him like has endlessly helped me._

 

_This is one of those times._

 

~//~

 

Patrick looked down at Pete and shook his head. He had been working late in the mini-studio they had in one of the extra bedrooms. Pete had come in several times—once to bring him Thai food he had ordered in, and two times to try to get him to give it up. His first try had been a typical Wentzian approach to the problem—Pete had run in, yammering about something, tried to climb all over him, knocked over his guitar, and left sulking when he yelled at him to _get the fuck out before you break something or I break you._ The second time he had been all loving touches and kisses and honey-colored eyes begging him to call it a night. That the bed was cold without him. Patrick had allowed Pete to kiss all over him and nuzzle like a cat…but then had firmly pushed Pete out of the room and shut the door with a stern _go to bed._

 

Unsurprisingly, Pete hadn’t gone to bed. Instead, he had curled up on the couch with the dog (who Patrick _never_ let on the furniture) and fallen fast asleep. The TV was on, painting his face in the skittering stained-glass light of infomercials, and Patrick didn’t have the heart to wake him. It wasn’t like Pete slept a lot anyways, he rationalized, may as well let him grab what he can, no matter where it is. So he turned the lights off, and pulled one of the throw blankets off the back of the couch and covered Pete with it, gently tucking it under his feet. He pressed a kiss to the cheek of the person he loves most, but Pete didn’t smile like he normally did. His face stayed smooth, with just a hint of a frown. 

 

Patrick shrugged and went up to bed. 

 

~//~

 

 _He was in a subway station. It reminded him of Tokyo…all shiny white and clean—efficiency and utilitarian beauty fused into one. He was near the edge of the platform, looking down into the drop where the tracks lay in four gleaming lines. People were moving around him in the mindless flow of a hundred lives propelled a thousand places, yet there was complete silence. Not a sound or a footfall was heard as they walked, all dressed in white, just like the station. He looked down and saw that he was wearing his favorite button up and his black sweater, sneakers and skinny jeans. He could feel the comforting press of his hat on his head, and the rims of his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He wondered when the train would get there…he certainly had_ somewhere _to be._

 

_“Patrick!” The word echoed like a bolt of lightning in the station, unnaturally loud. “Please don’t leave!”_

 

_Pete was standing across the tracks on the other side’s platform, eyes wide with fear. All of the sudden, the tumult that had been suspiciously absent leapt into being, like someone had taken noise-cancelling headphones off his ears. Patrick tried to shout to him, to tell him he wasn’t leaving, that he would never leave. Pete didn’t seem to hear, and Patrick could see him starting to shake, tears running down his cheeks._

 

_“Why don’t you love me anymore?”_

 

_Patrick felt like someone had ripped his heart from his chest at the raw pain in Pete’s shout. He tried to take a step forward, involuntarily, but his feet were rooted in place. His voice echoed in his head as he tried to make Pete hear him—of course he loved him, he would never stop loving him, nothing would ever change that._

 

_Then one of the white-clad figures collided with Pete, and he was knocked from he platform down onto the tracks. He landed in a heap, and when he raised his head to meet Patrick’s eyes, blood was dripping from his hairline onto his forehead. Panic seized Patrick’s heart as he heard it—the train horn. It was coming, sounding off as it neared the station, the sound getting louder with each second. He tried to move, desperate to get to Pete, to save him, to pull him out. But all he heard was the roar of the train horn, and all he could see was the blood on Pete’s face. The pain and hope and fear in his eyes as he reached up a pleading hand to Patrick, and somehow he knew Pete wasn’t asking to be saved from death…he was asking for an answer. To know that Patrick loved him._

 

_Then the train thundered into the station._

 

Patrick jolted awake with a start. 

 

He couldn’t move—his body felt like lead, immobile except for his chest as he heaved in great breaths. Fast. Too fast. He realized his hands were shaking and there were tears on his face and his body was coated in sweat. After a long moment he remembered how to send commands to his body, and he brought his hands to his face, trying to think of anything but Pete’s eyes. His hand held out to him. _The train…_ With a cry, he curled up into a ball and rolled towards Pete.

 

He wasn’t there. 

 

For an eternal, awful moment, his mind flipped through a thousand possibilities, a million awful things that could have all resulted in Pete’s absence. His phone vibrated on the nightstand and the sound jolted him out of the cage of _what if’s_ , and he grabbed at it. 

 

He had a text. From Pete.

 

His shaking, sweaty hands meant it took him three tries to swipe the screen across and view the message.

 

<goin to mtg @ DCD2 should b back by 12>

 

He looked at the time. It was 9:04. He typed out a reply as fast as his numbed brain would let him.

 

<Im on my way please stay there>

 

He threw back the covers and dashed to the closet. The black sweater from the dream stared at him and it took all of his willpower to not rip it from the hanger. He pulled his red one out instead and a black v-neck and dashed to the bathroom. The logical part of his brain was vainly trying to tell him that Pete was fine, it was just a dream, there weren’t even subways in L.A. But the part of him that was desperately in love, that was shaken to the core by what he had seen in Pete’s eyes…that part propelled him to get ready in five minutes flat. Then he was out the door, grabbing his hat off the hook but not even pausing to lock the deadbolt, his mind still chanting a single sentence over and over:

 

_Please let nothing happen to him._

 

~//~

 

“Yeah, because _everyone_ is going to want to see the New Politics guys in speedos.” Pete rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to go there, why not just get them those banana-hammocks that go up over their shoulders and call it a day?”

 

Everyone at the table laughed, and Pete had to admit that the idea wasn’t actually as horrible as it sounded. The group _was_ from Copenhagen, after all, and the European guys seemed to really be into tiny junk-sacks, so…? Maybe this new album art _did_ need something attention grabbing like that.

 

He happened to look up, and saw Patrick barreling down the hallway. The conference room’s glass walls were frosted to about four feet high, but his husband wasn’t _that_ short. The smile on his face stalled as he saw the look in Patrick’s eyes. Something was off.

 

The door cracked open and Patrick’s fedora-covered head poked in. He seemed to sag a bit, but he gave a decidedly shaky and very _not_ Patrick-like smile to the assembled group. 

 

“Hey, um, can I borrow Pete for a minute?” 

 

Standing, Pete left his chair and began to walk around the long table towards the door. One of the guys—Derek—made a comment that it wasn’t a nooner if it wasn’t even noon yet, and then everyone was catcalling and whistling. Pete grinned his biggest shit-eating grin as he neared the door.  
  
“Hey, green looks good on all you clowns. Just make sure the jealousy doesn’t eat you up while I’m gone, okay?” His last words were probably lost as Patrick got a hold on his arm and _pulled_ him through the door.

 

“Dude, what’s going on?” He asked as Patrick pulled him towards Pete’s office down the hall.

 

Patrick didn’t meet his eyes as he wrenched the handle down with a lot more force than necessary and pushed the door open. He pulled a dumbstruck Pete into the office and slammed the door, locking it. 

 

“Okaayyyyyy. Patrick, seriously what is it? I mean, if you really wanted a quickie, all you—” Pete’s words were knocked out of his lungs as he was pushed against the door and Patrick pressed himself against him, his hands coming up to grab Pete’s face as he kissed him like he hadn’t seen him in years. Automatically, Pete kissed back, because come on. There was no universe where he _wouldn’t_ kiss Patrick Stump’s fucking gorgeous mouth when it was pressed against his like this. But then he realized that the hands on his face were shaking—strike that, _Patrick_ was shaking—and the sudden wetness on his face were tears sliding from Patrick’s face onto his. 

 

Gently, he pulled away, hands coming up to cup Patrick’s cheeks. “Babe? What happened? Are you alright?” He tried to pull Patrick away enough to look at him, but the younger man just pushed his face back, trying to kiss him again, but Pete was ready this time. “No, wait. Seriously, talk to me. What is it?” Patrick’s eyes flashed up to his, and Pete’s heart clenched as he saw the pain written plainly across his face. Tears were welled in Patrick’s eyes, and his breath was coming in short, staccato bursts. Patrick shook his head and curled into Pete’s chest, hat falling unnoticed to the ground as his arms circled around Pete’s waist and held him tightly, like Patrick was afraid he was going to melt away.

 

“I…I had a dream.” Pete had to strain to hear the words mumbled against his chest. Confusion knitted his brows together as he pressed a kiss to the top of Patrick’s head. 

 

“Like a bad one?” After all these years, he still couldn’t think of a time that Patrick had ever really talked about nightmares. That was Pete’s specialty, after all, and Patrick always held him through it when he woke up, murmuring sleepy, solid reassurance in his ear until he calmed down. But he had never seen Patrick like this—all raw emotions and uncensored need. It scared him and exhilarated him all at once, but he wasn’t sure that Patrick was going to be able to stand much longer. The trembling was getting worse as he gripped Pete, and a concussion wasn’t going to help anything. “C’mere.” 

 

Pete pulled the shaking form of his best friend and love of his life towards the couch and helped him sit, almost having to pry Patrick off him. Finally he succeeded in getting Patrick seated and he knelt between his knees. Shaking hands gripped his tightly, and he searched the face he loved most, the one that he woke up to every morning and his heart _still_ skipped a beat. Patrick was pale—more pale than normal, which was saying something—and his nose and eyes were red from crying. He looked small, shoulders hunched like he was holding a weight on his back. Pete’s heart broke seeing him so…shattered was the only word that came to mind. Like he was a mirror that had been punched but was still in the frame, pieces still held together by tension alone. 

 

“Tell me about it?”

 

Patrick’s thumbs were rubbing insistently against his knuckles, like he was making sure he was really there. Blue-green eyes met his, and Patrick let out a shaky breath. “It…it wasn’t so much the dream. I mean…we were in a subway station, and you…were shouting at me, asking me not to leave…” He spoke in halting spurts, like he was dropping the words one at a time into a pond like stones. “I was trying to tell you I wouldn’t…but you couldn’t hear me and…then you fell on the tracks…and I heard the train coming…and…” He squeezed his eyes shut. 

 

“I’m here. I’m fine babe, there aren’t even any subways in L.A.” Pete shook their clasped hands a bit, trying to jangle him out of it. 

 

“No…fuck, Pete, I _know_ that.” There was a bit of annoyance in his voice that sounded more like the Patrick he knew. That made him feel a tiny bit better, until a tear slipped from Patrick’s closed eyes and wound a glimmering trail down his cheek. “I just…I woke up and you wren’t there, and it just hit me how much I love you.” 

 

If you had told Pete that he would be struck speechless at 9:45am on Tuesday by his husband being _forthcoming,_ he would have rolled his eyes. Because firstly, Patrick was almost never awake and verbal by 9:45, and secondly, declarations of feelings weren’t really Patrick’s thing. Pete had always thought that Patrick shared his emotions with music, that if he could just find the magic decoder ring, he would finally know all the things Patrick was saying in notes and bars. But hey…if the impossible was going to happen, at least the earth was still spinning on its orbit, despite such a turn of events. He hoped. 

 

“…I’m sorry I’m such a workaholic, and that I get so wound up in projects and that I’m not the most…” Patrick floundered, one hand releasing it’s death grip on Pete as he waved it like he could pluck the word he was looking for from the air. “...Good at saying things.” His eyes seemed to bore into Pete’s like he could directly transfer what he was trying to say directly into his brain. “But you _have_ to know how much I love you. I’d _never_ leave you, ever, and…” The words sounded choked as he gripped Pete’s hands tightly. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.” 

 

A distant part of Pete’s brain told him that he should probably wipe the shellshocked look off his face and say something. But his mouth didn’t seem to want to work, which was saying something for Pete Wentz. So he did the next best thing—he crawled up on the couch and pulled Patrick into his arms. He came willingly, tucking his feet up under him and melting into Pete like a sweater-swathed puddle. Pete just held him tightly, rubbing his back and rocking gently until Patrick stopped shaking and his breathing was even. 

 

Gently, he tucked a finger under Patrick’s chin and tipped his head up to look at him. Blue-green eyes met his own, and Pete could see love in them that took his breath away right next to the fear. Tilting his head down, he pressed a deep kiss to Patrick’s lips, willing all the feelings in his heart to bleed into the other man. It was a kiss full of promises and comfort, of home and safety, and nights full of passion and days full of love. 

 

When he finally pulled away, Patrick’s eyes were calm. A faint smile tucked the corners of his lips, and the barest flush colored his cheeks. “I thought you were going to talk me to death.” 

 

Pete grinned. “Who, me?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt Credit: http://otp-lifestyle.tumblr.com/post/151866713236/imagine-your-otp-9


End file.
